by N G Osborne
“Don’t worry, he won’t be shocked, he already has a file on me this thick.”
“Away with you,” she giggles.
Charlie leans in and gives her one final kiss.
“Back before you know it.”
He winks at her and heads out the door. Noor looks at the clock. Quarter to seven. If everything goes to plan Charlie should be back by dinner. She goes out onto the verandah and prays, doing everything in her power to focus on God. Afterwards she sits down and allows thoughts of Charlie to overwhelm her. She senses someone and opens her eyes. Rasul is staring right at her from the lawn below. She’s convinced he’s read every one of her lurid thoughts. She scurries inside and finds her father engrossed in a book.
“I did not realize you were up so early,” he says.
“I was seeing Charlie off. You?”
“I just returned from taking Wali to the hospital.”
“This early?”
“I’m afraid you have to get there before seven if you want to salvage any hope of seeing a doctor. I told him I would wait but he was having none of it.”
“Can I make you breakfast?”
“No thank you, I am most content.”
Noor spies the cover of his book—Anna Karenina.
“Surely you’ve read that before?” she says.
“Of course, but when I was perusing the shelves just now I couldn’t find anything I hadn’t read.”
“So you picked the longest book instead?”
“No, just the best,” he smiles.
“Well I’ll leave you to enjoy it.”
Noor heads to go upstairs.
“Noor,” her father says.
She turns back.
“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he says.
“Every day of my life.”
Aamir Khan smiles and returns to his book.
In her bedroom, Noor finds Bushra asleep. She begins packing her meager possessions into the case her father found; photos Charlie has taken of Aamir Khan and Bushra; her collection of threadbare shalwar kameez; her books; the essay her father made her write all those years earlier.
She hears a car drive up and wonders if Charlie’s forgotten something.
Two more pull in behind it.
Doors open and men get out, calling out to each other in Pashtu and Arabic. A chill passes through her.
The front door crashes open; it is enough to wake Bushra.
Noor rushes out of the room and down the corridor. She hears her father say something followed by a sickening crunch. Aamir Khan falls silent.
“Find her,” someone says.
She knows the voice well—it’s Tariq’s. The Devil’s couldn’t strike more dread in her.
A couple of men start up the staircase.
Noor sprints back towards her room. Bushra stands in their bedroom doorway, paralyzed.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Noor says.
Noor grabs Bushra’s hand and pulls her down the corridor towards Charlie’s room. The two of them slip inside it, and Noor locks the door behind them.
The men’s booted feet come thundering down the corridor. They kick in her bedroom door and then Aamir Khan’s.
“Come on,” Noor says.
She flings open the balcony doors and climbs onto the ledge. The tree bough hangs three feet away. She hauls Bushra up beside her.
“We’ve got to jump,” she says.
Bushra looks down at the drop and swallows. Back in the room, someone tries the door. When they discover it’s locked, they start kicking it.
“You can make it,” Noor says. “I promise.”
Bushra closes her eyes and leaps. Her feet fall either side of the bough and her hands flail for something to grab on to.
Just as it looks like Bushra might tumble to the ground, her right hand grabs a hold of a branch and she steadies herself. She looks back at Noor.
“Go,” Noor says.
Bushra crawls along the bough. Noor prepares to leap when she hears a clamor of voices below.
“You cannot do this,” Aamir Khan shouts.
Two mujahideen drag Aamir Khan by his arms onto the lawn and toss him down. He struggles up onto his knees, blood seeping from a cut to his forehead.
“As your father, I beg you, these are your sisters.”
One of the mujahideen kicks Aamir Khan over.
“Stop it,” Noor shouts.
Aamir Khan looks up, and for a moment they hold each other’s gaze. Another blow lands in the small of Aamir Khan’s back. He cries out in agony.
“By the grace of Allah, leave him alone,” she shouts.
Tariq comes out of the house and pulls out his pistol. Aamir Khan sees Tariq approaching.
“O Allah!” Aamir Khan says in a loud, clear voice, “Pardon my sins which are many and accept my deeds which—”
A shot rings out, and Aamir Khan’s body relaxes into the ground.
“No,” Noor screams.
The balcony doors fly open, and she twists around to see two mujahideen standing there. She recognizes them as two of the men from the camp.
Noor jumps only for a hand to grab a hold of the back of her pants. Her forward progress halts, and she finds herself hanging upside down. The younger of the two yanks her up and throws her over the ledge.
“Go easy,” the older man says.
He wraps his thick arms around her. Noor kicks him, but her blows have no effect. Hobbling, he carries her out of the room and down the corridor. Noor tries to free her arms only for him to tighten his grip even more. They reach the top of the staircase. At the bottom, Tariq gives her a nod as if to suggest that Noor’s now his.
Never.
Noor reaches between her legs and twists the older man’s testicles. The man roars in pain. He loses his footing, and the two of them tumble down the staircase. She lands on top of him, the blow so stunning that for a moment Noor forgets where she is.
Then it all comes back. The one thing that doesn’t is her breath. She can’t get one out let alone take one in.
This is it, I’m dying.
“Yousef,” she hears Tariq shout over and over.
She looks at her brother, bent over her assailant, the man’s neck bent at an impossible angle. She closes her eyes and wills death to sweep her away too.
“You bitch,” Tariq says.
He yanks her up by her hair only to let go. She falls back onto the tiles and looks towards the front door. Mukhtar stands there with his mouth agape, a grocery bag in either hand. Tariq grabs Mukhtar by the collar and drags him whimpering through the hall and out towards the garden.
Noor raises her head.
Get out, her mother’s voice screams. Get out while you can.
Noor tries to stand, and her legs give way.
Now. You have to go now.
Noor crawls one strained elbow length at a time. The door gets ever closer, and as it does her lung capacity returns.
A gunshot rings out from the garden.
She stands and this time her legs hold. She staggers outside.
At the bottom of the driveway, she sees a rickshaw idling, the driver oblivious to what’s going on.
Noor’s pace quickens.
One of the Arab drivers’ looks up.
“Stop,” he shouts.
The rickshaw driver sees Noor coming and scrambles to put his rickshaw in gear. She grabs onto the rickshaw’s door and throws herself into the passenger compartment.
“Go,” she screams.
The rickshaw lurches forward. A hand reaches in and grasps her leg. She flails for something to hold on to.
She’s too late.
Noor topples out, her knees scraping along the asphalt. The rickshaw flees down the street.
The mujahid driver drags her down the driveway and deposits her in front of Tariq.
“I won’t have you dressed like a whore,” Tariq says.
He throws a black burqa at Noor. She stumbles to her feet and looks for
an escape route. Tariq’s men encircle her.
“Help,” she screams, “please, someone help me.”
Two of Tariq’s men come up behind her and grab each of her arms. The burqa comes down over her head. The two men pick Noor up and carry her to an SUV. Noor grabs a hold of the door, kicking out at anyone that comes within reach.
Through the burqa’s gauze, she sees a couple of mujahideen carry her father’s body out of the house. They throw him in the back of a pick-up as if he were a bale of straw.
“No,” she screams.
Something jabs her arm and she lets out a high-pitched howl. She twists around and the mujahideen take a step back. She tries to move but her legs won’t comply. She notices one of the mujahideen is holding a depressed syringe in his hand.
Oh no. God, no.
She blacks out.
FIFTY-SIX
CHARLIE PARKS ON the street. He’s glad no one picked up when he called from Islamabad.
It’s only going to make it more of a surprise.
He still can’t believe how easy it’d been. His father’s contact had asked him four meatball questions and thirty minutes later had returned with the K-1 visa pasted into Noor’s passport.
“You can leave tonight if you wish,” he’d said.
Tonight, unlikely. But by the end of the week. Why not?
Charlie pulls Noor’s passport from his pocket and flicks to her visa. She grins back at him. He feels an urgent desire to see that smile again. He walks up the driveway and finds the front door open. He closes it behind him and creeps through the house. No one’s there. He goes out onto the verandah. Rasul is sitting on the steps in front of his hut. Charlie waves. Rasul doesn’t bother to wave back.
Friendly as ever.
Charlie tiptoes up the staircase and along the corridor. He sees Noor’s bedroom door open. He grins and sidles up to it. He jumps into the bedroom.
“I’m back,” he says.
No one’s there. Noor’s suitcase sits open on her bed.
“Noor,” he shouts.
There’s no answer.
Could they have gone into town?
He heads to his bedroom and notices his shattered door. He pushes the door open and finds the balcony doors loose hanging off their hinges.
A cold sweat bathes his body. He runs out onto the balcony and shouts Noor’s name over and over.
No. No. No. No. No.
He sprints out of the house to his SUV. He and drives like a man possessed. He prays there’s another explanation.
Please God, let it not be this.
He pulls up to the front entrance of the hospital. Wali is waiting there in his wheelchair. Charlie jumps out.
“Ah, finally my ride’s arrived,” Wali says.
“Where’s Aamir Khan?” Charlie says.
“He sent you, no?”
“He’s not at the house, none of them are.”
“Then they must have gone to the bazaar.”
“They told you that?”
“No, but where else could they be?”
“Tariq’s taken them.”
Wali’s smile falls away.
“We need to go back to the house,” he says.
“Didn’t you hear me? They’re not there.”
“But Rasul and Mukhtar are, no? Maybe they know something.”
Charlie lifts Wali into the passenger seat. He slams the door shut and races to the driver’s side.
“My wheelchair.” Wali says.
“We’ll get it later.”
Charlie puts the SUV into first and tears away. The drive back is as crazed as the one there. Charlie lifts Wali out of the car and carries him through the house all the while shouting out Rasul’s name. He finds Rasul sitting in the same position. Charlie drops Wali into a rocking chair and runs over to the old man. He frog-marches him over to Wali.
“Ask him where they are,” Charlie says.
Wali and Rasul go back and forth in Pashtu.
“He begs your pardon,” Wali says, “but he wants to know why you’re treating him this way?”
“I don’t give a shit, where is everyone?”
Wali asks him. Charlie sees the blood drain from Wali’s face.
“What is it?”
“He says he was in the garden when he heard noises coming from the house. Not good noises so he hid in the bushes—not long after some men come out dragging Aamir Khan with them. Aamir Khan pleads with them but they did not listen.”
Rasul fills in more details.
“They threw him down, and their leader shot him—one of the woman was screaming on the balcony, and some men came and dragged her away.”
Charlie clutches the railing to stop himself from collapsing.
“He says a few minutes later they dragged Mukhtar into the garden and shot him also.”
“Where?” Charlie says.
Rasul points towards the lawn. Charlie staggers down the steps. The grass looks like someone has spilt a can of red paint on it. Charlie searches for air.
“Is it true?” Wali says.
Charlie nods, and Wali groans.
“What about the other woman?” Charlie says. “Where is she?”
Rasul points at the oak tree.
Oh thank God.
Charlie scrambles up the trunk. There in the nook he sees Bushra crawled up into a ball, a look of catatonic terror on her face. His heart sinks.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Hold my hand.”
She takes it, and slowly but surely he guides her down the trunk. Bushra gets to the bottom and sees Wali sitting in the rocking chair. She runs over and wraps her arms around him. Charlie follows after her, everything a blur. He stumbles upstairs to his bedroom and flings open his desk drawer. There next to the pen gun he sees Ivor’s business card. He grabs it and makes for the hall. Wali shouts out his name. He ignores him and calls the number scrawled on the back of the card. The phone at the other end rings.
Come on, goddamn it.
Someone picks up.
“Mr. Gardener’s residence,” a man says.
“I need to speak to Ivor, it’s Charlie Matthews.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Matthews but Mr. Gardener not here.”
“Is he at the Consulate?”
“I believe he is at Miss Kuyt’s house.”
Charlie drops the phone and runs for the door.
“Mr. Matthews,” Wali shouts from the verandah.
Charlie continues on and jumps in the Pajero.
Stay calm, stay calm.
He finds it impossible to. All the way there he makes ever more onerous bargains with God in return for Noor’s safety. By the time he gets to Elma’s cottage he’s even promised never to see her again.
As long as she’s safe.
He sees Ivor’s dark blue Bronco parked out front and jumps out. He rings the doorbell.
“Ivor, Ivor, you there,” he shouts.
He bangs on the door.
“Ivor, please, I need your help.”
Charlie tries the door. It’s locked. He runs around the front of the house to the garden gate. It’s locked too. He pulls himself up and over the other side. He sees a set of French doors and sprints towards them. He turns the handle. The door opens.
“Ivor,” he shouts.
He hears voices down the corridor. He runs down it and throws open the door at the far end. Elma screams. She is sitting up, holding the sheets to her chest. Ivor stands naked by the bed, the bedside phone in his hand. Charlie stares at them, unsure what to say or do.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Ivor says.
“He’s taken her, Ivor, he’s taken her.”
Ivor comes round the side of the bed and struggles into a pair of pants.
“Who’s her?”
“Noor—my fiancée.”
Ivor stops midway through buttoning them up.
“You got engaged to an Afghan, are you out of your fucking mind?”
Charlie takes a st
ep back, stunned by the ferocity of Ivor’s tone.
“Elma knows her,” Charlie says. “She lived here for a while.”
Ivor looks at Elma.
“That true?”
Elma manages the slightest of nods.
“Please, Ivor, help me, you know these people, you can bargain with them.”
Ivor grabs his shirt off the floor.
“Wish I could, buddy, but there’s nothing I can do. This Tariq guy is the Prince’s right hand man, he’s untouchable.”
Ivor slips into his shirt. Charlie stares at him in horror.
“How do you know his name?”
Ivor slides his feet into a pair of penny loafers.
“It’s my job. I know every fucking mujahideen leader in this piss ant town.”
“Yeah, but how’d you know Tariq took Noor?”
Charlie glances at Elma. She looks back at him with a mixture of dread and self-loathing. Charlie stalks towards the bed.
“You told him, didn’t you?”
Elma cries out.
“You fucking told him where to find her?”
Ivor steps in front of Charlie. Charlie pushes past him. Elma scrambles off the bed.
“Help me,” she screams.
Charlie advances on her, his fists clenched.
“He killed her father, my cook—you realize that.”
Elma drops to the ground and raises her hands to protect herself.
“No,” she cries.
Charlie stops.
Remember what’s important.
Charlie hears someone come running down the corridor. A well built man bursts in. and points his gun at Charlie.
“Get on the floor,” the man shouts.
Charlie doesn’t flinch.
“It’s okay, Jack,” Ivor says, “Charlie was just leaving, weren’t you, Charlie?”
Charlie walks towards the door.
“Forget about her, buddy,” Ivor says, “She’s not worth it.”
Charlie continues on, not once looking back.
***
CHARLIE PULLS TO the side of the road just beyond the flickering street lamp and cuts his lights. He stares down the tree lined street; it looks like a tunnel heading straight to hell.
Remember stay calm, show him respect. If there’s a peaceful way out of this, that’s best.
Charlie get out and walks alongside a tall, brick wall, the pen gun in his right sneaker rubbing up against the side of his foot. Up ahead two black-turbaned guards stand outside a large wooden gate with AK-47s slung over their shoulders. One of them spots Charlie and says something to his compatriot. They aim their guns at Charlie.